Arthur/Merlin - If You Want Closure In Your Relationship... [Part 3]
Title: If You Want Closure in Your Relationship (start with your legs)
Author: tsumetaikaze
Chapter: 3 of 5
Fandom/Pairing: Merlin [Arthur/Merlin, Lance/Gwen, past Gwaine/Merlin, side Leon/Morgana, side Gwaine/Anything Willing]
Genre: Fluffy romance with a healthy dash of snarky humour, and a drop of semi-productive angst
Rating: R
Warnings: mild anxiety disorder (mostly humorous - explained in notes), waffling, too many words in general, attempts at being cultured and knowing what I’m talking about, boysecks.
Word Count: 52,000+ WHY IS IT SO LONG?
Summary: Merlin discovers he likes art but shelves a lot of strange books in between, and Arthur interrupts his down time by smiling - Merlin tries to find a way around it but it doesn't really work out as planned, and there might be a little too much alcohol involved. Lance recites poetry along the way, maybe Morgana has a point and Gwen was right after all, and everyone knows Gaius is always right. Except when it came to the therapy. No one was right about the therapy.
[Part 1] - [Part 2]
Merlin spends an absurd amount of time trying on different shirts and t-shirts, thankful that he doesn’t own a pair of shorts to make the choice that little bit harder. Morgana’s been telling him about a fantastic new green dress she’s bought, so he rules out his green t-shirt. Gwen wears lots of yellow in summer so he won’t wear that, Lance is either black or white, he doesn’t even want to think about Arthur, so he settles on a plain dark blue t-shirt and jeans and grabs a light jacket for the walk home.
He doesn’t check his hair in the mirror because he feels that what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, and takes a deep, calming breath. He thinks of all those little revelations he’s come across since the start of the year, focuses on all the progress he’s made recently, and checks the lock on his anxiety. If there’s one way to test if Arthur really does trigger it then this is it, and he’s not going to let Gwen get away with calling him a pansy.
They shout his welcome as he joins their table, thankful that Arthur isn’t there yet so he has time to get comfortable, and shoots Morgana quelling looks as she makes like she’s about to give some unwelcome comment about growing a set. She bites her tongue and just grins, changes tact quickly and says, “Such a pleasure to see you again, Merlin. We haven’t had a proper chat in so long!”
He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, accepts the cider Lance places in his hand, and does his best to relax into it all. Therapy is not mentioned on pain of death, though Morgana looks about ready to burst, and relaxing becomes easier as the time ticks by. When Arthur strides in, looking all a manner of harassed and disgruntled and clearly come straight from work, Merlin nods and even manages a small smile, and doesn’t Gwen just beam at him?
They don’t talk, not really, but Arthur always checks if Merlin wants another drink (“He’s already had two, slow down mate!”), and Merlin always steps out of his way when he wants to pass to get to the bathroom. They co-exist but don’t necessarily interact, and Merlin thinks that if life went on just like this it would probably be okay. He watches as Lance and Arthur pick on each other incessantly, as Morgana and Gwen whisper and giggle behind their hands and make cutting but light-hearted remarks in retaliation, and he can feel Arthur’s eyes on him as he and Gwen laugh at Geoffrey’s eyebrows and make faces at the infamous alcove behind the 300s.
Merlin really doesn’t want to admit it, because the evil twins’ gloating will never cease, but it’s not that bad.
Well, in that awkward, shuffling, let’s-all-direct-the-conversation-this-way sort of feeling.
It could be worse, is what he’s trying to get at, because it’s not good but it isn’t bad either.
By the end of the night he’s even managed to share an eye roll with Arthur over Morgana and her shoes, Lance and his poetry, and get his hair ruffled for going incognito for a couple of weeks (Morgana gets stern looks through that scene, warning her that clothing will be vandalised if she so much as thinks the word ‘therapy’). Arthur gets called a prat probably a little more than is necessary, and maybe his jokes don’t get laughed at as much as they should but hey, it’s as good a start as any and the next time Merlin glances at his watch he’s horrified to note that it’s heading a little too close to the morning for his liking, and he has to apologise for his early departure.
“But it’s Friday!” Morgana protests.
“Yes,” Merlin retorts, “and very soon it will be Saturday, which means I have to open in the morning.”
Three answering groans are sent his way, and Arthur just stares at him with a discomforting intensity as he finishes the last dregs of his beer. Merlin averts his eyes with a subtle clearing of the throat, and gives a short farewell wave.
“Keep yourselves nice, you hear?” he grins as he heads to the door, slinging his jacket over his arm and welcoming the cool night air in comparison to the bar with a satisfied smile.
He feels pretty bloody good, truth be told. He has survived an entire - he checks his watch again - five hours with Arthur, and no one is bleeding. If that’s not an achievement, he doesn’t know what is. He’s just starting down the footpath when there’s a familiar, authoritative voice calling out his name behind him.
He turns on his heel, honestly just feeling on top of the world, and gives a small bow with his arms spread wide. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Arthur?”
The man in question comes to stand a couple of feet away from him, arms folded and looking sceptical. There’s a lengthy, weighted pause before Arthur nods, “I just wanted to say I hope you had a good night.”
Merlin takes a moment, and is just as surprised as Arthur when he hears himself say, “I did, thanks.”
So when Arthur extends his hand to shake, Merlin stares at it a little too long before reaching out, and can feel his heartbeat surrounding him as he realises that this is a Moment. It’s a Moment on the path to overcoming his problems, to stop being the problem, and he’s going to seize it and show Gaius that he’s literally extending a hand now, and willing to help and be helped.
They shake quickly and firmly, with just the right amount of curt manliness to make Merlin lose a little of the wonderment he feels at the Moment, and maybe feel a bit like a girl instead. But he’s still smiling a small, one-dimpled smile so so what?
“So I’ll, uh, see you around, then?” Arthur says, and Merlin’s sure it’s not supposed to come out like a question by the way Arthur stuffs his hands into his front pockets and looks to the side nonchalantly, but it does, and that threatens to make him smile even wider. Just a little.
“… Yes,” Merlin breathes, surprising himself all over again. “I guess you will.”
It’s a night to remember, that’s for sure.
Probably because Gwen won’t shut up about it, but Merlin likes to think it’s because he’s coming along in leaps and bounds (no thanks to old toffs with an alphabet of abbreviations), and he’s actually done something that Gwen might be marginaly proud of. He realises it is a little bit of pride, yes, but mostly it’s just the girly part of her brain taking the wheel and making her feel all mushy at his bravery.
On Thursday she surprises him with his favourite complicated coffee, a caramel slice and a beaming smile that says, “Gosh, if that’s what happens when I call you a pansy I’ll be sure to do it more often.”
“Careful or you’ll end up with caramel up your nose.”
“You wouldn’t dare, you love me too much.”
Merlin glances at her sideways as he sips his coffee. “I love caramel too much,” he corrects.
“Ungrateful sod.”
“Love you.”
She throws the plastic spoon at his head and they discuss possible future wedding dresses, skilfully covering for themselves when Lance walks in as Gwen is confirming, “No, I don’t think I’ll have a big wedding.” Merlin knows he’s getting more than his fair share of curious looks, but he ignores each and every one as he finishes off his caramel slice and bids the two lovebirds a delightful afternoon, but he’s got work to be getting on with.
He doesn’t skip back to the circulation desk, but it’s a close thing. He just feels so damn good about - that is the most horrifying pile of returns he has ever seen in his life. He stares at it in disbelief, sure it wasn’t that large this morning when he checked and decided it could wait until the afternoon, and sits down with a heavy sigh and a moment of mental preparation for the monotony to come. He settles into the wonky chair and begins the mind-numbing task of scan and trolley, scan and trolley. Occasionally someone comes to talk to him, and he helps them find a book that they’re too blind to see right in front of them or too lazy to find on their own or too old to understand the use of a keyboard - but it doesn’t happen very often, and he looks at the clock far too often, time slowing until he’s sure it’s stopped.
He’s just processing the last book in the pile, moving to the trolleys to begin shelving so Cedric doesn’t have a panic attack in the morning, when a familiar, strong voice says above him, “What are these strawberries doing on my nipples?”
Merlin rolls his eyes and looks up. “I need them for the fruit salad.”
Arthur darts his eyes to him so fast Merlin’s almost certain he hears something crack. “You - what?”
He sighs, holds up the book and shakes it a little. “The title. That’s the rest of it. I thought that’s what you were trying to read.”
Arthur’s eyes go a little wide and his mouth makes an O shape, then - “What on earth kind of books do you have in this library?”
“All sorts,” Merlin grits, moving to place the book in question on the trolley.
“Evidently.” There’s a short silence, then Arthur continues with a clearing of his throat, “Right. Well. I’ve come to take you out to coffee. As an apology - and a thank you.”
Merlin turns to stare, feeling his heartbeat speeding up instantly and recognising it as a very bad sign. He’s not sure he’s heard right, takes a moment to think back and notes Arthur’s awkward shuffling that he’s trying to hide which just makes it look even more awkward, and comes to the conclusion that yes, Arthur just asked him out to coffee, said sorry and thank you all in one go.
Life’s really doing a back flip, isn’t it?
“You want to take - me, to coffee?”
Arthur nods stiffly. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
Merlin opens and closes his mouth soundlessly for a couple of moments, really not sure what to say to that because while he’d like to get over his irrational fear of blondes, he can feel his blood rushing in his hears and nerves clawing at his stomach and he knows he can’t push it - when Gwen rushes past out of nowhere saying, “Forgot my cardigan, sorry - oh hi, Arthur! What brings you here?”
“Guinevere, hello,” Arthur smiles, and he is posh, isn’t he? “I’ve come to take Merlin out for coffee.”
Gwen’s kind gaze snaps to him and takes on a disbelieving quality as she looks between the two men with slightly raised eyebrows. “Gosh, don’t give him any more,” she laughs suddenly. “We’ve finally got him to stop drinking it like water!”
Merlin lets out a nervous, hesitant laugh as Gwen ducks behind the desk to grab her white cardigan as Arthur stares on in adorably confused silence. She straightens with a flick of her hair and a hand gripping Merlin’s shoulder far too tight, sporting a grin that’s so bright Merlin’s sure it’s only there to hold in the maniacal cackling she’s doing inside. “Well, I’ll just be off, then. Arthur, tell Morgana I’m sorry for not meeting her yesterday, but we’ll catch up soon.”
Arthur smiles at her, gentle, and nods his affirmation and farewell. She gives him a quick hug and turns to walk backwards once she’s passed him, sending Merlin waggling eyebrows of encouragement and fierce eyes of persuasion as she heads out the door - leaving Merlin to stew in his own pit of wriggling nerves as Arthur turns to face him with a, “So, shall we?”
“I am at work, you realise,” is all Merlin can think to say.
Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, I am aware.”
“I can’t just up and leave!”
“Of course you can.”
“No I -“
“Who’s your manager? Is it him? I’ll talk to him. Excuse me!”
Merlin waves his arms, makes shushing sounds and is a general nuisance in Arthur’s face until he stops trying to get Geoffrey’s attention, and leans his hands heavily on the desk before him. “I can’t leave. Come back another time.”
Arthur looks like he doesn’t know what to make of this statement, and Merlin grits his teeth and turns back to the trolleys to be shelved, starting on arranging the books in order to make his job easier. He ignores Arthur remaining at the desk, humming quietly to himself so he doesn’t hear the soft tapping of expensive shoes on the hardwood floor, and is about ready to start at 000.001 when Arthur clears his throat.
“Merlin, this may come as a surprise to you but it’s not often I offer a hand in apology.”
Merlin can’t help but snort, manages to tactfully mask it with a following cough, and at least gives Arthur the courtesy of facing him as he continues.
“I honestly feel we had a bad start and that the animosity between is unfounded, so I would like to take you out to coffee so we can talk. Properly talk, I mean. I’m not very good at explaining myself, but I’d like it if you let me try.”
Merlin’s heart does not try and go out to him, even a tiny bit, and he does not feel guilt starting to creep in. Not at all. He doesn’t think of Gaius trying to tell him that Arthur is just trying to be his friend, doesn’t think of that stupid evil therapist who said evil things, and doesn’t think of co-existing at the bar. So there’s absolutely no reason why he squares his shoulders and huffs under his breath, “Will the coffee steal my soul?”
Arthur blinks. “I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.” Merlin remembers Gwen’s encouraging eyebrows and glares as Arthur waits, thinking determinedly of helping out those less fortunate than himself and says, louder this time, “Fine. Coffee.”
And Arthur’s face lights up like a child with a new toy as he exclaims, “Great!”
“Strong coffee.”
“Of course.”
“I finish in half an hour, just let me get this trolley out of the way,” Merlin grunts, and turns his back on that deceptively innocent face before it makes him do something stupid like coo.
*~*
“That was the most excruciatingly awkward hour of my life,” Merlin groans into the phone, pulling a pillow over his head and wanting to suffocate himself.
Gwen’s laughter barks down the phone and he hears her click him onto speaker as rattling from the kitchen comes through the line. “Oh do tell, my love.”
Merlin ignores Lance’s soft chuckling in the background and squeezes his eyes shut, lifting the pillow and throwing it across the room. “He was so nice. What’s with that? Lance don’t say a word. Let me have this.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin scowls. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, furrowing his brow as he recalls the seriously uncomfortable hour he just had to sit through, but can only manage to say, “The sun was very bright. His hair was very shiny.”
“Does he have hypnotic powers too?”
“Most likely. Just no breasts, thankfully.”
“What?” asks Lance.
“Never mind,” Gwen and Merlin say in unison, with a snigger.
“So,” Gwen pushes. “What happened? Apart from being shiny?”
Merlin sighs, wondering when that crack in the ceiling got there, and gives Gwen the details.
Arthur had been chivalrous and kind and genuinely nice, of all things, not a posh block of money and pompous words. He hadn’t even mentioned the Primavera or the gallery or the car accident or Merlin’s scathing words, despite his original promise to lure Merlin out. They talked sparingly of university, and sipped their coffee. They found out where each had met Lance, and sipped their coffee. Conversation was stilted and awkward but Arthur didn’t make any remarks about rewards or Merlin’s hair, Merlin only called him a prat twice, and they sipped their coffee. Eventually they found common ground in the discovery of their shared love of old books, no matter the subject. This is what had unsettled Merlin the most, more than the drawn out silences and the painful small talk - the fact that they could talk was more frightening than anything, and Merlin had had to excuse himself before he threw up the contents of his stomach from churning nerves.
Gwen makes a soft clucking sound and asks if he’s okay, understanding the panic rising in Merlin’s voice and knowing that now is not the time to call him an idiot.
Merlin breathes slowly, goes to his happy place on the balcony in the sunshine with his friends and the wine, and says truthfully, “Yes… Now, yes. It’s okay. Just… a shock.”
He can hear Lance’s smile as he says, “Shocking that he’s halfway decent?”
“Yeah, shut up. Don’t count your chickens just yet.”
“But it was okay, wasn’t it?” Gwen cuts in, anxious, and Merlin smiles for her. “I didn’t want to push you into anything because I know you’ve had a big week with the bar and all but you’ve been pretty okay since then, better than you have been, so I thought maybe it would be good for you to jump in the deep end all in one go or something. Was it too much? Do you need to go back to -“
“Gwen, if you send me to any more therapists I will jump out of my window.”
There’s a short silence.
“You’re only on the second floor.”
“Not the point, Lance.”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry!” Gwen sputters.
Merlin lets a small smile wind through his voice as he says, “No, it was okay. It is. Surprisingly.”
“Really?”
Merlin chews a thumbnail and stares at the crack in his ceiling some more. “Yeah. Weird, surprising, confusing - but okay. But, uh… perhaps tone it down for a few days?”
“Of course,” she agrees instantly, and Merlin breathes a little easier just in the knowledge that even if Arthur takes today as an invitation to come barrelling into his life continuously from now on, Gwen will at least protect him as best she can.
The knot that had been building in his stomach since the second Arthur asked him to coffee, grown every time Arthur brought out the indignant pout, and had attempted to choke him as soon as Arthur mentioned ‘that fantastic little bookshop behind the gallery’ started to unwind a little, loosen its hold and let his muscles gradually relax. He accepts Gwen’s invite to dinner, though, and as they sits out on the balcony until the sun’s warmth is completely evaporated by the night, Merlin feels the knot uncoil entirely and let him keep a check on the nerves that had been threatening to take over, let him forget them in lieu of knowing that he controlled it, not Arthur. Won’t let it be Arthur.
*~*
Arthur taking the coffee date as an invitation to re-invade his life is an understatement, Merlin decides three days later, the only consolation being that it appears Fridays with the Primavera are still his, and brunches with Morgana continue entirely uninterrupted.
It’s his only respite, though, because if Merlin thought Arthur was there before, he is so there now it isn’t even funny, and Merlin spends more and more time cowering behind the back shelves than doing his job - because how is he supposed to think when Arthur treats him like a plaything, demanding time and attention, and completely disregarding Merlin’s worn-out, frazzled nerves?
It starts out with Arthur trying to find anything and everything on Pompeii, the older the book the better, spending hours in the library and engaging Merlin in stilted, awkward conversation until Gwen sweeps in and says that Geoffrey wants to see him, so would Arthur like to follow her and she’ll show him where to look? Merlin sends her a look that promises chocolate and takeaway on the sofa, and runs off to hide in the staff room. He only finds out towards the end of his shift that Geoffrey really did want to see him, and rethinks Gwen’s reward.
Merlin spends a lot of time hiding behind shelves that week, cursing whoever did the month’s roster for putting him in bloody Guildhall for the entire week so he can’t even hop between libraries to escape. He cowers in the 400s while he watches Gwen laugh with him easily, scoffing at the latest soap opera scandal. He flattens himself against the wall by the 105.4s, grimacing as Cedric flirts like the entirely unashamed hussy he is, and he can hear Arthur’s hair glowing from here. He even runs all the way down to the back, winding through the 700s until he rounds the corner and gets to the far reaches of the 900s as soon as he sees Arthur walk in and Gilli cower in front of his ‘I’m in a bad mood and I want the world to get out of my way’ face.
Yet slowly, and with a lot of pausing and stuttering and prolonged silences, name-calling and smirking and shiny hair, Merlin learns how to breathe again. He even manages to continue doing so when Arthur catches him unawares. Granted, he still manages to drop How to Avoid Huge Ships on his foot and swear like a sailor while Arthur smirks and folds his arms and arches perfect eyebrows at him, but it’s edging towards a comfortable sort of hatred and Merlin’s slowly adjusting to that. It makes him feel warm and prickly at the same time, comfortable and like he’s going to shatter that cage in his mind and finally snap, but he’s getting there with Gwen’s help. Even when Arthur likes to watch him shelve, humming with interest or barking out bewildered laughs as he examines the titles, and ignores Merlin’s snappy remarks like,
“You really have nothing better to do than harass me, do you?” or “Don’t you have a job?”
And Arthur simply replies, “My god, this sounds like an interesting one,” raising his eyebrows over Oral Sadism and the Vegetable Personality.
He’s only thankful that Arthur doesn’t always get the right library on the right day, and perhaps twice a week Merlin completes a shift entirely free of disturbances, and it doesn’t take him quite as long to relax on a Friday morning any more.
But it’s one day a couple of weeks later, when Merlin is just leaving to sit outside during his morning break, that Arthur waltzes up to him with that confident stride and hands him a coffee. Merlin stares at it for a bit, not sure whether to take it and pretend to like it, or scoff in his face and say “You couldn’t possibly know how I like my coffee,” before deciding on the polite way, then regretting it instantly. It’s the perfect ratio of coffee to milk with the tiniest drop of sugar, a thin layer of froth and just the right scalding temperature, so perfect that Merlin glares and calls him a prat and Arthur just smiles. He smiles, and Merlin feels nervous in a way he hasn’t since Gwaine, and that leads to the familiar anxiety brand of nerves and it turns into a vicious cycle that has him turning away from the sun and that smile and calling for Gwen in a voice several octaves higher than the norm.
He lets her rub soothing circles into his back and be the mother everyone knows she desperately wants to be, and says that if she so much as thinks about telling Morgana he will have Lance’s balls. So she presses her lips tight and contents herself with watching Merlin squirm or hide behind shelves on days that he’s skipped his morning coffee and isn’t up for dealing with the attention-craving presence that is Arthur. Also not really caring to acknowledge that feeling - that nervous, crawling, light-hearted feeling that he gets whenever Arthur smiles, or whenever the sunlight hits his hair just so, his eyes gleaming and skin glowing and it all gets a little too romantic and sappy for Merlin’s liking, but he can’t help it. Luckily it’s mostly outweighed by the fact that Arthur really is a giant tosser.
But somewhere in there they become friends. Of a sort. There’s probably too many primary school put-downs involved for it to be a real friendship, but it’s something Merlin is on the whole quite comfortable with, and more than somewhat proud of. He doesn’t get Gaius’s disapproving eyebrow for the first time in his life, and if that’s not a good sign then Merlin doesn’t know what is.
Friday nights become a regular occurrence, with the odd Saturday night thrown in so that Merlin and/or Gwen can stay past midnight without fear of tearing some poor child’s head off the next morning due to ferocious hangover. There’s a new addition a couple of weeks into the tradition, one that seems to have become a permanent fixture, and all Merlin can think is how on earth did a rough’n’tumble man like Leon end up with the most graceful woman to walk this earth? He may have mentioned something of the sort after three beers, more than enough to direct him towards a truly embarrassing night, but then he’d stumbled and leaned a little too heavily on Arthur for a little too long, and Leon just raised his eyebrows in a way that made Merlin say, “Shut up, hairy.”
The most surprising thing of all is the return of Gwaine. He walks back into Merlin’s life in the last week of summer as scruffy and casual as ever, with the air of one well travelled and a different approach to life. He’s softer and more considerate, and terrifyingly wiser for it all. There is a lot of shouting (in the happy way) and hugging (in the you-cultured-bastard way) and perhaps a little bit of crying (in the manly way), but mostly there’s a lot of laughing and carrying on (and drinking, because Gwaine will never really change). Merlin’s pleased to note that the twisting in his gut that used to occur every time Gwaine looked at him has entirely disappeared, and there isn’t an ounce of regret in him for what they once had as opposed to what they have now - then he thinks what that means for the feelings he gets around Arthur, and pushes it out of his mind resolutely. It’s one thing to strike up an abusive sort of friendship, but another thing entirely to feel things.
Soon enough Gwaine is one of ‘the boys’, and Merlin feels like life just keeps getting better. There’s a palpable mistrust between Gwaine and Arthur at first, Gwaine being the old friend and Arthur being the new, but it’s nothing a few roaring nights at the pub can’t fix. Merlin’s realising the pub is becoming a major feature of all the checkpoints in his life of late, and resigns himself to the fact that he’s taken up with a bunch of pissheads. In no time Gwaine and Arthur have found kindred spirits, and become a force to be reckoned with should someone piss either one off - or any of their friends, for that matter, because if there’s one thing all of them are, its fiercely, intimidatingly loyal. There’s a lot of attempting to outdrink each other like cringe-worthy college boys, Leon coming up the winner every time and Lance always the first to go (“Merlin, join in, ya pansy!” “I like my brain cells in their current quantity, thank you”), and they always make complete tits of themselves. It’s ridiculous and childish yet hilarious, but all in all Merlin’s just glad he’s got someone back that understands him the way Gwen does. It’s sudden, Gwaine’s immediate integration into their new, mishmash group from different worlds, but it’s an entirely welcome suddenness that Merlin doesn’t know how he lived without for so long.
It’s when Merlin’s smiling like an utter fool as the rest of the boys laugh around a standing table, punching arms and slapping backs, that Gwen pokes him in the side and says, “I’m proud of you, Merlin.”
He shrugs, rolls his empty glass between his palms and glances at her with a shrug. “No biggie.”
“No really, Merlin,” Morgana leans forward. “It’s done you both a world of good. He’s different. You’re both different.”
Merlin has nothing to say to that, so he fights away the blush creeping up his neck and settles deep into his chair, content to absorb the sounds of laughter and music and the feeling that he’s finally found his balance. Somewhere in this pub, with this muddle of people that have quickly become his close friends, he’s found that balance between structure and nonsense that he’s never quite been able to attain.
And he raises his glass to Arthur as they nod to one another, sharing the smallest of contented smiles.
*~*
Merlin arrives to work early the next morning, having woken with the birds and pottered around his house just long enough to get bored, and straight away makes a start on the six trolleys last night’s shift has left for him. He hums to himself as he works, nods to Geoffrey and Gilli as they come in soon after, knocks down three trolleys before his lunch break and has time for a lengthy gossip with Gwen over toasted sandwiches (“And then he did this thing with -“ “Gwen, please. It’s hard enough for me to ignore how attractive your man is already”) before they’re waving goodbye to Gilli and Gwen takes over the circulation desk.
He’s just arriving at the mid 600s when he hears a quiet curse and the sound of a book hitting the floor. Peering around the corner, curious, he catches sight of a familiar suited figure, and checks his watch. Of course, right on time to heckle him for the duration of what Merlin has come to assume is his incredibly long, self-appointed lunch break. Arthur hasn’t noticed him, head down and leaning on one of the shelves, and Merlin allows himself a small, quiet smile as he takes in the image of Arthur without an arrogant smirk, without the straight-backed posture, without the work suit and without the general look of owning the ground he walked upon. After perhaps a little too long and being unable to come up with a reason for standing there smiling like a loon, Merlin notices the book Arthur has his head buried in, apparently deeply engrossed, and can’t resist an amused,
“Lightweight Sandwich Construction?”
Arthur suddenly comes to life, snapping the book closed and turning it to read the title, looking just as surprised as Merlin is amused. “Er…” He clears his throat. “Yes. Fascinating stuff, that.”
Merlin straightens and folds his arms, not bothering to hold back his smile. “Is it really?”
Arthur doesn’t stutter, of course he doesn’t, but it is definitely a close thing. “Very - erm - very interesting.”
Merlin just raises his eyebrows and takes a moment to process that Arthur is certainly not acting as per the normal routine of back and forth banter, and adopts a truly sour expression as Arthur hurriedly shoves the book back onto the nearest shelf, and in the entirely wrong place. He takes a breath, resists the sudden, itching burn to move it one row down and several positions to the right, and grips the trolley hard as Arthur brushes imaginary dirt from the front of his shirt.
“I’m not here to talk about lunch preferences, actually,” he says, back to his standard-issue, imperious tone.
“No, I thought not,” Merlin replies.
“Have dinner with me. Tonight.”
Merlin decides that the feeling of déjà vu occurs far too often where Arthur is involved, and feels his stomach drop and then try to claw its way up out of his throat as he considers all the implications of that not-quite question. His eyes go a little rounder than usual and Arthur doesn’t look at him, and his knuckles go whiter than they did just a moment ago and breathing sort of becomes difficult. Not last night he was thinking over how friendship was enough and feelings might just be taking things a little too far, and now here he is and here Arthur is and life should stop kicking him in the balls at some point because it’s not making much sense any more. He can feel his palms becoming sweaty and his stomach fighting out an escape route with fierce determination, and he considers this enormous arse right in front of him - being clumsy and charming and making him feel things that Gwaine doesn’t anymore and he can feel himself spiralling out of control so he goes to his happy place and stops.
He takes a deep breath, stretches out his fingers and ignores Arthur’s endearing, stuttered explanations and only just manages to squeeze out an eloquent, “Uh… I -“
“Great!” Arthur claps, face heating up in what can only be described as a blush, even though Merlin knows that if he ever mentions it he’ll probably lose a vital organ. “I’ll pick you up from here at six, then.”
And he’s pushing past Merlin in a whirl of subtle cologne and heavy breathing and well, the only thing Merlin can do is call out in a decidedly worried voice, “Gwe-en…” as he rushes back towards the circulation desk. He waits impatiently for some old bat and her whinging kid to budge, certain he’s red-faced and unable to breathe right, when she takes one look at him and says, astonished, “Did you just go for a run?”
Merlin snorts, “Don’t be stupid,” and sits heavily on the nearest available chair. There’s a moment’s silence, then, “Arthur just asked me to dinner.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
“I thought so too.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“I have no idea.”
*~*
Gwen covers for him by making up weird and obscure reasons as to why he’s not shelving as he ducks out and takes the trip back to his flat, thankful he’s at Shoe Lane today and doesn’t have too far to get to the tube. He wastes too much time deciding on what the bloody hell to wear, realises he’s sort of hopeless at the moment and would probably agree on that horrid bright yellow thing Morgana bought him as a joke if it meant it would get the job done, so he makes a quick selection of shirts, t-shirts and trousers, thanks the sun for shining bright today so he doesn’t need to go through the jackets, and stuffs it all into a bag before rushing back to the library in a mad panic.
He charges in the front doors, ducks behind a cardboard cut out of giant tree to avoid Geoffrey waffling on to some misfortunate soul, and creeps around behind the children’s displays to reach the front desk. Gwen doesn’t acknowledge him as he throws the bag under the desk and acts like he hasn’t just buggered off home and back, except to mutter out the corner of her mouth, “You have three hours to decide on the most unbelievably attractive outfit. Get to it.” So the next three hours, which pass by excruciatingly slow, consist of Merlin and Gwen muttering potential outfits to each other whenever they happen to pass by.
“Did you bring the dark red polo you wore the other day? You should wear that with those jeans you’ve got on.”
“Don’t have it,” Merlin hisses back.
Gwen makes ‘why the hell not?’ eyes at him as she turns the corner, and he shrugs. The next time he runs into her he says, “He always wears red. Don’t want to match,” and all she does is roll her eyes.
As they’re sorting through the returns she continues, “Perhaps just a white t-shirt with your black jeans?”
“Black’s too hot.”
“True. That yellow -“
“Don’t even think about it.”
“It is a bit weird, isn’t it?”
He raises his eyebrows, and looks down at himself, “Why can’t I just wear this?”
She levels him with one glare and scolds, “What kind of a gay man are you? No self-respecting person wears the same thing to a date that they were wearing when they were asked out. Really, Merlin.”
He stubbornly refuses to answer that, but when they time their five-minute coffee breaks in the staff room he grumbles, “Nothing wrong with this.”
“Yes, except that it’s brown.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, whatever.”
“I still think the white and black.”
“White washes me out,” he protests.
She thinks for a moment. “Did you bring that creamy, off-whitey, sort of loose thing? The V-neck?”
Merlin stares for a second, snorts “Nice description there,” then realises which top she’s talking about and groans, leaning against the bench and gulping at his coffee a little too fast. “It might be in there - unintentionally - but I look like a hair-gelled, back-waxed, eyebrow-plucked wanker in that shirt.”
Gwen’s eyes sparkle with amusement, but she fires back, “You look gorgeous, you show off your collarbones, and with the black jeans and that hair of yours - well. Just do it.”
He raises an eyebrow, sceptical.
“Merlin.”
“All right, all right!”
“’Atta boy.”
It’s exactly six o’clock when Merlin is standing out the front of the library, having finished his shift half an hour ago and spent the time in between wrestling with his hair and giving a last ditch effort to persuading Gwen the ‘creamy, off-whitey, sort of loose thing’ v-neck doesn’t suit him, but both are a lost cause and he feels more than a little self-conscious when Arthur steps out of a ridiculously shiny, sleek, black sports car and smiles at him.
He looks - well. He’s wearing red as predicted, his hair looks soft and his jeans are tight and his sleeves are rolled up and Merlin’s impressed, basically.
“Do you like Japanese food?” is all he says by way of greeting, and Merlin’s stomach gives a tiny growl in response.
*~*
Merlin is laughing - proper, embarrassing, hysterical type laughing - and Arthur is looking most disgruntled.
“It’s not funny, Merlin.”
“Oh but it is, Arthur.”
That earns him narrowed eyes and sesame sauce flicked his way via Arthur’s chopsticks, but it just makes him laugh harder and be surprised all over again at what a good time he’s really having. They don’t talk much, in all honesty, but when they do it’s light-hearted and playful and yes, Arthur’s a rich prat, yes Merlin’s nervous and a little twitchy to start with, but that’s always going to be the case. The least they can do is pick on each other for it.
“Why don’t you do it then, if you’re so very clever?” Arthur scoffs.
“Because you asked me out to dinner, therefore you should cook.”
Arthur grumbles and drops another sliver of meat into the boiling broth.
“Now take it out,” Merlin instructs.
“It’s only been in there two seconds!”
“That’s the point, genius.”
“But it can’t -“
“Well now you’ve overcooked it, haven’t you?”
“I have not -“
Merlin plucks the shrivelled piece out of the bowl with his chopsticks, admittedly not as steady with them as his companion but manages to pop it into his mouth easily enough, and chews. And chews and chews and chews and, “Definitely overcooked,” he says.
Arthur gives him a look that Merlin is sure has been used to quell many an opposing board member, but it only encourages Merlin to stare perhaps a little too long at his jaw line before deciding that it’s probably just better for everyone if he takes over the cooking. He bats Arthur’s hand away and tries his damndest no to think about how strong they look, mutters a cutting remark about useless rich bastards, and doesn’t quite manage to dodge an expertly flicked mushroom.
“Oi,” he protests loudly, startling the neighbouring table. “Have a bit of respect, would you?”
“Respect for you?”
“For the eating institution in whose delicate cuisine we are currently partaking,” Merlin sniffs.
Arthur pauses in dropping pieces of cabbage into the broth, and raises a sarcastic eyebrow. “Terribly sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“Too right it won’t,” Merlin retorts, and drops several slices of beef into Arthur’s bowl with a proud, “See, it’s perfect -right?”
Arthur grunts wordlessly and tucks in under Merlin’s watchful eye, downs the whole lot and holds his bowl out for more. As Merlin drops only vegetables into it in response, his face gets that ‘disappointed child’ quality about it and Merlin just raises both eyebrows, waiting.
“What?” Arthur bites out.
Merlin looks pointedly at the hot pot then back to Arthur, and his eyebrows creep that little bit higher. Arthur winces and whines and looks away, stubborn, before finally mumbling, “I’m not going to say it.”
“How much do you like cabbage?”
“The meat was perfect, you are a fantastic, truly talented individual - more please.”
Merlin laughs down at the table, knowing he’s blushing but unable to stop it because Arthur’s giving him that hidden, crooked smile and it does things to him, so he busies himself with cooking, passing every second slice to Arthur and enjoying the silence that falls around them. The restaurant is humming with low voices, delicate Japanese music drifting between the tables, and Merlin allows his thoughts to wind into each other as he settles into the rhythm. He can feel Arthur watching him, but doesn’t look up because he’s a little scared of what he’ll see - because he’s not blind. He just doesn’t know what Arthur wants from him.
Merlin’s heart has been in his throat since just after two o’clock this afternoon, his nerves wrenching every vital organ, but Arthur is sitting before him as cool and composed as can be. Merlin is starting to understand that Arthur just doesn’t get flustered, not really, and it makes everything worse because if Merlin doesn’t have anything to go off, he reads too much into things. He can’t tell what Arthur’s intentions are for tonight’s… date, for want of a better word - because they’re nothing like his dates with Morgana and yet they’re exactly the same. They sit and they bicker and they talk about life and comment on their waiter and they have moments of perfectly comfortable silence - but there’s something. Merlin’s perfectly aware that he’s probably making it into something all by his own merry self, but he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he wants this to be something and all Arthur wants is another friend, the unattainable now attained.
He can’t resist a glance up as he passes Arthur one of the last pieces of meat, and is instantly aware of how very glued Arthur’s eyes are to him. His neck, to be more precise, and Merlin’s blush comes back full force as he doesn’t know whether to curse Gwen or shower her with chocolate for making him wear this damn shirt.
“Er, do you want - do you want noodles?” he stumbles.
Arthur’s eyes dart away and follow his hands as he gestures to the only remaining bowl, and hums an affirmative before swallowing and adding, “How do you know when they’re cooked, then?”
Merlin shrugs, unable to hold back a tiny eye roll and the smallest of smiles. “Just do,” is all he says.
Arthur looks sceptical but waits quietly, watching again. Merlin’s not sure whether to comment on it or just leave him be, decides the prospect of mentioning it has too many embarrassing outcomes for his wired brain to deal with, and lets Arthur do what he wants.
Merlin just wishes he knew what that was.
Because if he’s going to be perfectly honest with himself, he’s got to admit that he doesn’t believe Arthur is the spawn of the devil anymore (a slightly lesser evil, perhaps, but not the devil). He’s starting to understand what Gaius and, well, everyone was talking about - maybe not so much Lance, but he’s seeing the similarities between the step-siblings, and really, really - he’s fighting a losing battle and his thoughts aren’t forming full sentences.
Because Arthur shoots him a crooked smile as their completely expressionless waiter asks if they would like some more sake, makes a light-hearted comment on Merlin’s complete lack of tolerance for anything with more than one percent alcohol content, and he’s just so damn attracted to the bastard that he can’t help but kick him under the table.
He is rewarded with a self-indulgent, quirky smile for his troubles and feels his heart accelerate in response, and the waiter just stands there like a solid wall of polite and waits for a real answer. Merlin leans forward to say firmly, “No more sake, thank you. Perhaps just some more water?” because if he has anything else to drink that fluffy, softness in his head will probably manifest itself into something highly, highly embarrassing in a matter of minutes, and now that he’s admitted to himself that he’s attracted to Arthur that embarrassing something will be truly, horrifically mortifying.
Then it hits him, good and proper, and he has to excuse himself to the bathroom.
Arthur just quirks an eyebrow at him and nods in a strange, almost permission-granting fashion, and Merlin gives an awkward sort of bob in return, then dashes off to the bathroom and skids to a halt in front of the sink, lights burning his eyes and the white of the bowl swimming in his vision.
He, Merlin Emrys, is attracted to Arthur bloody Pendragon.
And oh god he really is, he despairs, the simple thought of that crooked smile sending his stomach into a fit of nervous twisting. But it’s not the twisting he’s used to, the sweaty, clawing, belief that everything is about to go disastrously wrong - it’s the giddy desire, the fluttering, the anticipation. And good god if that’s not even scarier than the world ending.
He stares down the plug hole, wants it to suck him in and take him out of here, realises how stupid he’s being and so starts up a good bout of pacing. His footsteps are loud in the hollow, tiled room, ricocheting off the walls and bouncing around in his head, but he thinks resolutely of Arthur sitting out there in the restaurant, being charming and kind and a complete smartarse, and he can’t run. He can’t. He’s been drawn in completely by everything that he hates about him, all of it manifesting itself into some bizarre, twisted fancy that he hasn’t got a hope in hell of understanding - but he can’t run out on it.
He thinks back to what he normally does in these situations, realises that it usually involves Gwen, lots of chocolate, and even more mooning like a pre-teen, and thinks it might be best if he doesn’t go down that path this time. Getting hysterical in the bathroom of a high class Japanese restaurant probably won’t create a good impression as far as first dates go - and that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s a date. Arthur has asked him out on a date. Merlin doesn’t know if it’s a friend date or a date date, but quite frankly he doesn’t think it matters.
The fact is that he’s sharing a meal with a man he doesn’t even like but has inexplicable bouts of wanting to do things with, is having an unsettlingly good time, and he’s not wanting to jump out of a tenth story window over it.
Bugger.
He’s not going to admit it out loud, but perhaps Gwen and Morgana were right, because he’s doing those wanky breathing things without even realising. With a decisive grunt he stops pacing, checks his reflection and the t-shirt that makes him feel like a neck slut, and pushes the door open with a sense of doom.
Arthur looks up and smiles as he returns, and now that Merlin’s worked it all out properly its effect is as least tenfold. He clears his throat and ducks his head with a self-conscious tightening of his lips and settles back into his seat - only to note that all the noodles are gone.
He lifts his eyebrows, impressed, and gives Arthur an incredulous look.
He just shrugs, fingers following the folds of the napkin that he’s too refined to need, and says, “You took a while,” by way of explanation.
Merlin pauses, then, “Yeah, I was - erm -“ he raises his hand to wave it away, gives a dimply, awkward breath of a laugh, and clears his throat with a quiet, “Nothing.”
“Panic attack?”
Merlin meets Arthur’s eyes defiantly and shrugs, not answering, and bites the inside of his cheek as Arthur’s face loses its arrogant amusement and goes - not soft, but… yeah. Soft. Self-consciously so.
“I’m sorry if you’re - uncomfortable, with any of this. I can arrange for a car to collect you, if you’d -“
“Arthur, please,” Merlin interrupts, looking at him like he’s a daft idiot and shaking his head. “Don’t do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Play the rich boy. I don’t need a car to ‘collect’ me, I wasn’t having a panic attack - much - and this isn’t making me uncomfortable. Much.”
Arthur purses his lips and stiffens. “Much,” he repeats.
Merlin sighs and lays his palms flat on the table, shoulders sagging. “Well of course I’m a little uncomfortable. Arthur, I don’t have the same access to wealth that you do. I’m not accustomed to this sort of…” he gestures around the sharp, modern restaurant, “splendour, if you will.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, and Merlin knows instantly that he’s not buying it, if the slight frown and near silent inhale is anything to go by.
“What -“ he starts, has to stop to take a calming breath, then continues. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, I mean, let’s be honest here. We don’t like each other, not really.”
“I enjoy your company as much as the next person.”
“Enjoying someone’s company isn’t the same as liking someone.”
“I like you.”
“Do you? Do you really?” Merlin asks, sounding a little desperate and exasperated. “Are we even friends?”
“I’d like to be.”
“Arthur, when have we had a conversation that doesn’t involve insulting each other?”
“Well -“
“When have I called you in a fit of panic? When have I confided anything in you? When have I invited you over for dinner, or dropped in on you at work and no my visits to the gallery don’t count.”
“Merlin -“
“All we ever do is make each other’s lives difficult -“
“Merlin, I -“
“Well, mine more than yours… Do you have to -“
“Merlin.”
“What?”
Arthur unclenches his fists from where they’ve curled, white-knuckled on the wooden tabletop, and says quietly, “I said I’d like to be friends. Not that we were.”
Merlin’s mouth falls open slightly at that and he raises his eyebrows in a somewhat stunned expression, cheeks colouring pink. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
Arthur clenches his jaw.
“I look like a right idiot now, don’t I?”
A slight nod of assent.
Merlin’s grin is slow to dawn, but eventually it reaches full force and he’s breathing a little easier. He suddenly thinks he can do this (because isn’t Arthur just charming when he looks like he’s eaten his own sock?), and picks up a menu with a decisive, “Well that’s all right then. What about dessert?”
Arthur just stares for a moment, eyes riveted to him but not in that gawky ‘are you insane?’ way, and Merlin just keeps grinning. Everything starts bordering on awkward for a bit, until Arthur quirks his lips in return, shakes his head with a sigh, and picks up a menu as well.
“I was think-“
“Oh, no,” Merlin admonishes, looking very grave all of a sudden. “You couldn’t possibly eat any more after all those noodles. Yes, I think I’ll go for the red bean platter - you just get your breath back. Wouldn’t want you compromising that cutting figure of yours.”
Arthur sits back in his seat while Merlin makes quietly thoughtful sounds, utterly astonished. Eventually he manages a slightly too-loud, “Are you saying I’m fat?”
Merlin looks up at him, shocked, and sets the menu aside to raise his hand for service in an imperious manner. “I don’t think ‘cutting figure’ implies ‘fat’, do you?”
“But you were -“
“What can I do for you, sirs?”
Arthur splutters something about teaching Merlin the concept of respect, but Merlin’s smile is as innocent as a newborn’s and he interrupts with, “Your timing is impeccable -“ his eyes flick to a gold name badge, “Jason. I would like a red bean dessert platter, thank you.”
“And I’ll have -“
“No you won’t.”
“The -“
“Thank you, Jason.”
The waiter looks between them, and if Merlin thought that now of all times would be a good moment to allow for some facial expressions, Jason apparently does not agree. He nods his head, polite and deferential, mutters, “One platter on the way, sir,” and sweeps away with both dessert menus in hand.
Arthur and Merlin might still be having a staring competition when the meal arrives, and Arthur might end up eating half of it anyway (“I’ll show you ‘fat’”), and there might be a spectacular scuffle at the register when they fight over who’s going to pay for what, Arthur shutting Merlin up with a furious glare and a threat to end the Friday Brunch peace treaty, but Merlin really just spends most of the time grinning and accepting the fact that the butterflies in his stomach are probably here to stay.
Jason sees them out with a bland stare, sweeping bow and a “Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen,” and they can’t help but drop a hand on each of his shoulders and say, “Chin up, mate!” in unison, laughing like giddy teenage boys as they step into Arthur’s car, which Merlin decides is as refined and posh as its owner. Merlin gives Arthur his address and the conversation on the ride back is as punctuated as it was over dinner, though with slightly less insults and somewhat more apprehensive. The restaurant was warm and inviting, and helpfully provided them with topics for conversation (mostly the other’s incompetency - but hey, a conversation’s a conversation), and now in the sterile cool of the car it sort of drifts away from them. It’s not uncomfortable, Merlin notes, it’s just… lacking.
“Gosh it’s cooled right down, hasn’t it?” he scrambles, at the same time as Arthur says, “Do you fancy going for a drink?”
They pause, look at each other as Arthur stops at the lights, and Merlin laughs at their failure. “No, thank you,” he answers, biting his lip a little as he smiles. “You know me - can’t handle anything with an ounce of fun in it.”
Arthur laughs and shifts gears before reaching across to punch him softly in the arm. “Shut up.”
“No but seriously,” Merlin continues, shying away from the abuse. “I better give it a miss. Dealing with children again tomorrow.”
“Ah,” Arthur exhales noisily, as if it explains everything - which, in a way, it does. “Can I join you for lunch, then?”
Merlin pauses, ignores the instinctive twitch and breathes, “Gwen and I usually eat together, but - you’re welcome to join.”
Arthur says nothing, simply inclines his head by way of acknowledgement and what would normally be considered thanks if it wasn’t Arthur making the movement, and slowly pulls up outside Merlin’s embarrassingly dingy complex.
Merlin clears his throat awkwardly as he unbuckles himself, and says, “I’d invite you up for a coffee, but you might touch something dirty.”
Arthur barks out a short laugh, “And I’d love to say yes, but I might catch twelve diseases in the first thirty seconds,” and it’s a little unsettling to realise that while real conversations might be a little harder to come by, the back and forth banter comes as easy as breathing between them.
Merlin nods and delivers a look of true sincerity as they both climb out of the car. “Oh, well that’s perfectly understandable, of course.”
“This obviously means I can’t shake your hand, because you live in that squalor.”
They step up to the gate, take one serious look at each other, and burst out in sudden, open laughter. Arthur claps a hand on his shoulder and grips it tight, and Merlin’s smile gets impossibly wider. He’s doing well, he thinks. He’s come a long way, because even though his heart is hammering in his chest and all but breaking his ribs, even though his stomach is twisting and turning - his brain isn’t shouting at him to run as far and as fast as possible, or giving him world-ending scenarios, and Arthur’s hand is warm through the chill of the night air. Arthur is still grinning that toothy grin, but his eyes have changed and he’s giving Merlin a look - calculating, hesitant and thoughtful all at once - and Merlin has to duck his head to escape it, a furious blush taking over his cheeks.
He looks up through his messy fringe and can’t wipe off the stupid smile as he lifts his eyebrows and says, “Arthur? All right?”
Arthur’s eyes dart sideways and he squeezes Merlin’s shoulder quickly before dropping his hands into his front pockets and clearing his throat. “Yeah - yes. I was just… trying to remember how to be a gentleman.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Merlin warns. “I wouldn’t go calling you a gentleman just yet.” There’s a short pause before he adds, “You did eat all the food, after all.”
“All the -“ Arthur pushes out a long, frustrated breath. “Have a nice night in the shitheap, Merlin. Do try to rid yourself of infectious diseases before tomorrow.”
Merlin chuckles quietly to himself and waves a hand at Arthur’s retreating back, hanging around in the faint glow from the security lights as he takes off in a whirl of sleek black expense. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, scuffs his toe on the pavement, and grins like the idiot he knows he is as he starts up the stairs.
---
[Part 4]